The Rivers of Zadaa (26 page)

“Let's do a little math here,” Andy Mitchell said.
“And I'm good at this, so you can't argue. I called you for help and it took about, what, an hour out of your busy schedule? You, on the other hand, call me at six in the morning and ask me to drive three hours up to the sticks, so you can see a chick I can't stand, and doesn't like me so much either. Is that about right?”

“Uh, yeah, that pretty much sums it up,” Mark said sheepishly. “But you said if I ever needed a favor—”

“I did,” Mitchell said, snorted, and hawked a lougie out the driver's window.

Mark nearly retched. He was grateful the window was open.

“All I'm saying is, this don't make us square,” Mitchell said. “The way I see it, I'm in for six, seven hours plus here. After this,
you
owe
me.
”

This was killing Mark. The idea of relying on Andy Mitchell for anything was worse than swallowing metal shavings. To know he was now indebted to the creep made him want to jump out of the car while they were doing sixty-five on the Connecticut Turnpike. To top it all off, since he helped Mitchell deliver the flowers that morning, there was nothing covering the rancid smell in the car anymore. What else did Andy use this car for? Stashing bodies for the mob? The only thing that kept Mark from losing it was knowing how important it was that he find Courtney.

“I'm really grateful,” Mark said.

“Yeah, we'll see,” Mitchell said.

Mark closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep.

“Why do you got to see her so bad?” Mitchell asked. “I thought she had the hots for Pendragon?”

“The truth?” Mark asked.

“No, I want you to lie,” Mitchell said sarcastically. “Sheesh.”

Mark had no intention of telling the whole truth, but it was going to be awkward once they got there. He figured he had to tell some version of the truth. “I'm worried about her,” Mark said.

“Chetwynde?” Mitchell scoffed. “She's the last chick I'd worry about.”

“Yeah, well, I think somebody might be giving her a hard time, and I want to make sure she's okay,” Mark said.

“And you got this brainstorm at six o'clock in the morning?” Mitchell asked.

Mark shrugged and said, “I couldn't sleep.”

Mitchell shook his head in dismay and said, “Some guy is giving Chetwynde grief and you want to swoop in like Batman to protect her?”

“I'm more of a Superman guy,” Mark said.

Mitchell laughed. “You're nuts is what you are. Maybe it's a good thing you called me.”

Strangely enough, Mark was thinking the same thing. He didn't want to be doing this alone. He wondered what Courtney would say when he showed up with Andy Mitchell. He hoped she'd get a good laugh out of it. He hoped to hear her laugh about anything.

Mark didn't hate the drive. Once the “you owe me/I owe you” conversation was over, they began talking about Sci-Clops. It was the one topic they had in common. Mitchell told Mark all about the process he went through to develop the elastic metal with the incredible tensile strength that he had demonstrated at his first meeting of Sci-Clops. Mark was fascinated to hear Mitchell describe how he was trying to find a way to create something with the durability of metal and the flexibility of plastic. The trick was to find the elements that would form an ionic bond on the atomic level to create an entirely new compound. Much of it was trial and error, and he said how he was still a long way off, but the professors at the university thought that what he'd done so far was pretty impressive.

Impressive was the word. It never failed to amaze Mark to listen to Andy when he spoke about his passion for math and science. It simply didn't jive with the slug personality of this guy who drove with one hand and kept pushing his greasy, dirty blond hair out of his eyes with the other. The guy was gross . .. and genius.

Not to be outdone, Mark told Andy more about the killer robot he had made that won so many competitions. He explained how the secret wasn't in the hardware, but the software. Mark had never told anyone about this before, but hearing about Mitchell's successes with his new compound, he felt as if he needed to show off a little too. He confided in Mitchell that he had been working on a new processing code that actually streamlined the binary flow through the processor of the computer that ran his robot. The result was that the clock speed of the standard microprocessor was dramatically increased, which translated to faster commands to the hardware, and therefore a robot that could react and attack way faster—with more programmed moves—than its competition. Mark admitted that it was all pretty crude at this point, but he hoped to develop it further so that at some point he might catch the interest of one of the big tech companies.

After hearing his story, Mitchell looked at Mark. He didn't say anything, he just looked at him.

“What?” Mark asked nervously.

“That's incredible,” was all Mitchell said. “Absolutely incredible.”

It sounded to Mark as if he meant it too. For the first time, Mark felt as if Andy Mitchell had respect for him. Not that it mattered. Impressing Andy Mitchell wasn't Mark's lifelong ambition. Yet it was an interesting moment. Mark actually felt a connection with this guy. Was it possible? Could they be friends?

He didn't have long to think about it, because a second later his ring began to twitch.

Mark didn't have time to fret about the bad timing. He quickly stuck his hand in his pocket and said, “I'm whipped. I'm gonna lie down in back.”

Before Mitchell could react, Mark clicked open his seat belt and vaulted into the back of the ancient station wagon.

“Take it easy!” Mitchell shouted. “I ain't got no insurance.”

Mark's ring was already growing. He pulled it off and crouched into a fetal position, trying to hide it and block the spewing light. He spotted an old, stained tarp in the back. Without a second thought he grabbed it and covered the ring, which had already grown. The tarp kept the light show hidden too. The only thing he couldn't hide was the music. The jumble of notes grew louder in spite of the fact it was muffled by the tarp.

“What are you doing?” Mitchell asked. “You got a Game Boy back there?”

“I-It's my watch alarm,” Mark said, thinking fast. “It's a weird tone, I know. I think it's busted.”

Andy Mitchell looked at his watch. “Why's your alarm set for eight forty-five?”

“Uh, th-that's when I get up. Usually.”

The notes grew louder.

“Geez, turn it off, will ya!” Mitchell complained. “It's making me crazy!”

“Yeah, I'm trying. I can't find the button.”

Mark prayed for the event to end. A second later he felt the ring shrink back to normal as the musical notes abruptly stopped.

“Thank you!” Mitchell said. “Jeez.”

Mark felt around under the tarp until he touched the roll of paper that had come through the ring. Bobby's next journal had arrived. Mark was certain that contained in its pages would be the result of the war on Zadaa. But he couldn't read it. Not yet. It killed him, but he had to put it away until they found Courtney.

“You all right back there?” Mitchell asked.

“Y-Yeah, fine. I'm gonna sleep, okay? Let me know when we get close.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Without looking at the journal, Mark slipped it into his backpack. In spite of the fact that he hadn't slept all night, he wasn't the least bit tired. But he had to play out the lie. So he lay there, wide awake, staring at the stained ceiling of Mitchell's station wagon. He tried not to think about the journal that was only inches from his head. First things first. He had to find Courtney.

The drive took a little over three hours. Andy Mitchell kept to the speed limit, which wasn't all that hard considering his beater of a car rattled like it was going to fall apart whenever they got up any real speed. Mitchell followed the directions that Mark had printed out from Mapquest. It got them to the front gates of Stansfield Academy shortly after ten in the morning.

“Nice place,” Mitchell said. “I always figured Chetwynde had bucks.”

“It is pretty nice,” Mark agreed.

“So? How do we find her?” Mitchell asked.

Mark had already thought this through. He got the map of the school he had printed out from their Web site. They parked in the visitors parking lot and went to the registration office. Mark put on his most polite voice and introduced himself to the secretary as Courtney Chetwynde's brother. He said they were visiting and needed to know where her dorm was. Mark was so polite that the woman had no problem giving him the information. It helped that Mark had Andy wait out in the corridor. He was sure that if the woman got a look at Andy Mitchell, they'd be lucky not to be thrown out on their butts. With the information in hand, Mark and Andy walked quickly across the campus to Courtney's dorm. Within minutes they were standing in front of the old, ivy-covered brick building.

“One problem,” Mark said. “It's an all-girl dorm. They don't allow guys in to—”

“Gee, yeah, that's a big problem,” Mitchell said, and walked right in. Andy Mitchell wasn't big on following the rules.

It was an old building, with dark mahogany wood paneling everywhere and a wide staircase that led to the second floor. Courtney's room was #219. The guys took the stairs up, two at a time. Her room was at the end of a long corridor with old, thick carpeting that smelled kind of musty. Mark knocked softly.

“Courtney? It's Mark.”

No answer. Mark knocked again.

“You there, Courtney?”

Still no answer.

Andy pushed Mark aside and pounded on the door a few times, yelling, “Hey! Wake up!”

Nobody answered.

“Now what?” Mark asked.

“Not a problem,” Mitchell said. “I have a technique I developed for just such an occasion. It took me a while to master this. It's very precise. Observe.”

Mitchell took a step back…and kicked open the old door.

“Andy!” Mark yelled.

“Hey, you said she was in trouble. What's an old door lock?”

Mark figured Andy was right. He truly didn't care about the door, so long as they didn't get arrested. They entered the room, quickly closing the door behind them.

Courtney wasn't there. Her single bed was made, her English lit books were stacked neatly on her desk. Mark took a quick look around and saw no other books.

“Her algebra-trig book isn't here,” he announced. “She must be in class.”

“Nice going, Sherlock,” Mitchell said. “Let's go find it.”

As they left the room, they ran into a girl who was wheeling her bike along the corridor, headed to the room across from Courtney's. She stared at them suspiciously.

“Hi,” Mark said. “My name's Mark Dimond. I'm a friend of Courtney's.”

“Oh yeah,” the girl said, relaxing. “She's talked about you.”

“I'm Andy Mitchell,” Andy said, trying to be charming. “I'm her friend too.”

“Yeah?” the girl said. “She never mentioned you.”

The charming smile fell from Andy's face.

The girl asked, “Is she sick?”

“I don't know, why?” Mark asked back.

“Cuz she didn't show up for lit class this morning.”

Mark's mind raced. Her lit books were still on her desk. He had to force himself to keep cool.

“I don't know. We just got here. Maybe she's with that guy she's been hanging out with. What's his name? Wimpy?”

The girl chuckled. “Whitney. Whitney Wilcox. Could be. They're always together.”

“Where does he live?” Mark asked.

“I don't know,” the girl answered. “Check with the registrar. And when you find Courtney, tell her I picked up her assignment.”

“Thanks,” Mark said. “I will.”

He grabbed Andy by the arm, and the two hurried off.

“Who is this wimpster dude?” Mitchell asked. “The guy we've got to rough up?”

“No,” Mark said. “There's somebody else.”

“Two guys?” Mitchell said with surprise. “Chetwynde's keeping busy. What's the deal?”

“Look, Andy, I don't mean to be mysterious, but this is Courtney's business.”

“It was,” Mitchell said quickly. “But you made it
our
business.”

Mark was afraid it would come to this. He knew Mitchell would start asking questions he didn't want to answer, even if he could. But he knew he had to tell Mitchell something.

“All I know is that she's been seeing some guy, but then there's another guy who's been bothering her. I wanted to come up here to give her support. That's pretty much it.” Mark thought that, in some simplistic way, that was the truth. He could only hope that Andy Mitchell would buy it.